


i never thought of this as funny

by annejumps



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Adult Eddie Kaspbrak, Adult Richie Tozier, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Implied Bottom Richie Tozier, Implied Top Eddie Kaspbrak, M/M, Misunderstanding, Mutual Pining, Richie Tozier is a Mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-23 14:16:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23046229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annejumps/pseuds/annejumps
Summary: “Eddie Kaspbrak would never fucking treat me like this,” he says to the ceiling, and then laughs. He’s made that joke to himself about Eddie for literally decades, and it just keeps getting sadder. Because the last time he saw Eddie, they were thirteen, and it was at summer camp.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 9
Kudos: 161





	i never thought of this as funny

**Author's Note:**

> _I never thought of this as funny  
>  It speaks another world to me  
> I wanna be your Easter bunny  
> I wanna be your Christmas tree_  
> —[R.E.M., "Be Mine"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dHUmRkbAHBA)

Richie wakes up alone _(again, naturally...)_ , and rubs his hands over his face before looking around his bedroom.

Yeah, his one-night-stand is gone. Wham, bam, thank you sir. Thank God. Richie has a raging headache—he can’t drink like he used to, and at some point maybe he’ll realize that—and he’s sore all over but in a bad way, and he doesn’t really feel like fucking dealing with someone else right now anyway. Well, a few people, maybe. Okay, one.

“Eddie Kaspbrak would never fucking treat me like this,” he says to the ceiling, and then laughs. He’s made that joke to himself about Eddie for literally decades, and it just keeps getting sadder. Because the last time he saw Eddie, they were thirteen, and it was at summer camp.

They’d gotten along immediately like they’d known each other forever. Eddie put up with, possibly even enjoyed, Richie’s constant stream of shitty jokes, and Richie was unbothered by what in hindsight was a fuckload of neuroticism in a kid that young. 

They usually hung out in the same group, but as the weeks went on, he and Eddie would go off alone together more and more often, mostly just shooting the shit and making fun of each other, and Richie loved every second of it, even Eddie shoving him. Maybe especially shoving him. Eddie was a little guy, at least compared to Richie who just around then was starting to sprout up like an especially goddamn awkward weed, but he was fierce. When he was around, you took notice, or at least Richie did. Richie lived for getting Eddie’s attention, but when he got it he apparently felt all possible emotions at once and it was exhausting. He wouldn’t have traded it for anything.

It was also right around this time that Richie was starting to put the pieces together in realizing that he was, in fact, gay, although it took him quite a few more years to get it and accept it. And he was around Eddie a lot during this period of realization. Anyway, the long and short of it was that he had, and part of him still has, a monster crush on Eddie Kaspbrak. And the standard Richard Wentworth Tozier Method for dealing with inconvenient emotions was and is to act the fuck out. Sure, he knew that then, knows it now. It’s the source of most of his material. At least he can get paid for it that way.

One day, he was really being a pain in the ass. It had just been him and Eddie, that day. And that was the day Eddie had kissed him. And that had probably been the most perfect day of his fucking life. 

Back then he’d made fucking disgusting jokes all the time because they got him the biggest reactions, but he hadn’t even had a wet dream yet or started growing hair in weird places. No, that kiss had been more pure and innocent than he probably deserved. 

His jerkoff fantasies were always about someone else, never about how Eddie must’ve looked as he got older, because maybe it was fucked-up and Puritan of him but thinking of Eddie for that somehow seemed fucking weird. A sense of Eddie crept into his dreams, sure, including the wet ones, but he couldn’t really do anything about that, and they were vague enough, anyway.

Richie was attracted to the smallish dark-haired guys he saw after that summer, but none of them were Eddie, who had been taken out of school or had moved or something, so he didn’t really give a fuck about them. 

He had kissed a few girls in high school and tried to evade getting made fun of for not getting laid or whatever, but lucky for him he was also a big fucking dork, which was a pretty valid reason totally aside from his actually being gay. 

College in the big city—Portland, that is—was more of the same until a series of semi-anonymous handjobs, blowjobs, and whatnot at a party or four, and then he had somewhat of a slut phase until his social ineptitude pissed off the few guys who were interested in hanging out otherwise. Moving to an actual big city with an actual gay population brought on another slut phase that was basically his entire thirties, still with the social ineptitude and the pissing off. He hadn’t even actually ever had a boyfriend _per_ fucking _se_.

And here he was today, past forty and mind still parked on Eddie.

“Stop thinking about this,” he mutters to himself now for the millionth time. “Fucking… stop. You imprinted on a dude when you were thirteen. Thirteen, for fuck’s sake. You haven’t seen him in literally decades. This is fucking pathetic. He probably doesn’t even remember you.”

Richie sits up and puts on his glasses. His vision is so bad he’d be a great candidate for Lasik or whatever if he wasn’t freaked the fuck out by the idea of fucking lasers shooting into his eyes. He showers, brushes his teeth, and makes coffee. It’s Saturday, and he’s got a show tonight—yeah, Richie’s headlining a Saturday night show, that’s right.

Shit, Bev’s wedding is in a week, he realizes suddenly. He’d met Bev at camp, too, but they definitely didn’t kiss. They have, however, stayed in touch since then, which is more than he can say for himself and Eddie. Richie hasn’t even Googled him, because who knows what he’d fucking find? Yeah, sometimes he can be a coward; wanna make something of it?

Bev is actually marrying someone else they’d met at camp, which is kind of weird if you think about it, but apparently that had been a really important summer for them all, and Richie is in no place to judge. 

He wonders suddenly if Eddie might be invited to the wedding too, and after a flare of panic decides that’s probably not the case. For one, he wasn’t aware of Bev and Eddie being all that close, and for another, he wouldn’t be that lucky slash cursed. No, it’s better that he doesn’t see Eddie—that forever in his mind Eddie’s an adorable thirteen-year-old with big worried brown eyes, cute as a bug with his nice dark hair and his dumb red shorts and his stupid fanny pack, frozen in time, kissing Richie with an innocent press of lips and fucking ruining him for everyone else. 

And Jesus, he doesn’t need Eddie to see him, either. For one, Eddie probably forgot about him immediately, and the idea of having to try and prompt him—“Remember me, you gave me my first gay kiss and my gay awakening and I’ve basically been in love with you and no one has compared ever since?”—only to be met with a puzzled frown is the last thing he fucking needs. Sometimes Richie is up for tormenting himself, but not like that. 

The show happens, and he brings a guy back afterward and it’s the same old bullshit, and the guy leaves, and on Sunday morning in the shower he sings, in what is actually a pretty good Johnny Cash impression if he says so himself, Kris Kristofferson’s classic line about there being no way to hold his head that didn’t hurt.

Although he’s not rolling in the proverbial dough, he’s doing well enough when Bev’s wedding day rolls around he can wear a pretty decent suit. But he does wear a patterned shirt with it, because he might cease to fucking exist without a loud pattern somewhere.

Bev and Ben’s wedding is fucking beautiful, of course, and a shitload of people are there. As the reception starts, before a lot of people are sitting, he wanders around between the tables, working on a glass of champagne and looking for his namecard. And then he sees the card at the seat next to his, and there in neat print is: _Edward Kaspbrak_.

Richie sucks in a sharp breath and holds it until he physically can’t anymore. 

He’s here. He’s here, after all. Richie looks around wildly. More and more people are starting to file in. Richie considers up and fucking fleeing the reception hall, but just as he decides to give it a shot, the bride and groom enter with a crowd around them, and that blocks the doors. Richie briefly entertains the idea of running at them shouting “Get the fuck out of the way, this is a fire hazard!” and busting through the doors, but Bev would murder him. 

People are starting to sit now. Okay. Okay, it’s fine. It’s a wedding reception, it’s fine, it’s normal. _Fuck. Fuck you, Bev, for sitting me and Eddie at the same table. Fucking next to each other!_ Okay, that wasn’t fair. There’s no way she has any fucking idea. Richie had never told anyone that Eddie had kissed him. Not because he was embarrassed, although it would have gotten them their asses kicked if the wrong people knew, but because it always seemed like telling anyone would somehow ruin it. And if that isn't corny as fuck.

As Richie sits and tries not to hyperventilate, looking around both hoping Eddie doesn’t sit down and that he does and just fucking gets it over with, the bride and groom are being introduced, which must mean almost everyone is seated. And then, _and then_ , someone is sitting next to him, oh shit, and he turns to look and there’s Eddie: handsome, neat little dark-haired guy in a sharp suit, with big brown eyes, looking back at him. Fuck.

Eddie doesn’t seem to recognize him at first, and Richie wants to sink into the floor. Then, before Richie can stand up and run away, something changes in Eddie’s expression. 

“Richie?” he says, and squints. “Richie Tozier?”

“Uh,” Richie says. “Uh, yeah. And you are?” he adds, sarcastically, in a panic, not realizing how that sounds until there’s a little crease between Eddie’s brows, a little frown, and he feels a little pang of guilt for putting it there. _“Oh, that’s right, it’s you. The love of my fucking life,”_ he thinks. He shakes his head, waves his hand in an attempt to disperse the cloud of his own idiocy. “Yeah, sorry. Edward, yeah. I remember you. I’m just being an asshole.” _Kill me, please_.

Eddie’s face relaxes, and his expression is warm, like he doesn’t just remember Richie but is pleased to see him, which would be just too fucking much. His cheeks might even be a little pink, fuck. And he’s still got those bright eyes. “I was wondering if you’d be here. Haven’t seen you in so long,” he says, “but I still knew it was you.” He looks Richie over, briefly but it’s enough to mortify Richie: he must be taking in the same messy hair, thick glasses, patterned shirt, general dorkiness. Some things never change.

“Yeah, been a while,” Richie says shortly, and then _fuck_ , like a punch to the gut he sees that Eddie is wearing a fucking _ring_ on his left hand.

Fuck!

He’d never even considered that Eddie might be married.

Richie downs the rest of his champagne like a shot. 

_Maybe, fuckface_ , he thinks to himself, _if you’d Googled him you’d have been prepared_. Well, fuck it, too late now. Anyway, Eddie’s—spouse—must not be here. Not that that could matter to Richie. 

Eddie makes small talk with the other people at the table. He’s charming, and he still has those dimples, too. Richie wonders if he still goes off on those very fast rants he used to do about shit that pissed him off. 

Richie’s conversational skills aren’t exactly sparkling right now, but he tries. Kind of. Eddie asks what he does and seems happy to hear that he’s a comedian. Eddie himself is a risk analyst, whatever the fuck that really is, but it sounds like it’s probably something he’d be good at. Risks and analyzing. 

They accidentally bump elbows a few times, and the first time it happens Richie jumps like he’s been shot. The times after that, he somehow manages not to react. Eddie doesn’t seem to react either to the bump or Richie freaking out over nothing. It’s fine. These fucking wedding reception tables and their close-ass seating. He’s hyper-aware of Eddie just like he used to be, and he wants nothing more than to just… fucking stare at him. He used to steal little glances at him all the time at camp, looking away just in time, he hoped. Didn’t want Eddie or anyone else to catch him all fucking goo-goo-eyed. 

Doesn’t want to be caught now, either. 

For all he wants to stare at Eddie, though, he definitely fucking doesn’t want to look at his hand. His ring. Shit.

After the toast, Bev and Ben have their first dance, and during the dancing afterward Bev finds time to walk from table to table as people mingle, because she’s Bev. Richie stands for a hug and a cheek kiss from her, and barely catches Eddie looking him up and down with a surprised expression. _Well, what the fuck?_ he thinks, as Eddie stands. 

Bev kisses Eddie’s cheek, and Richie feels a stab of jealousy. 

Jealousy, of his good friend, who just kissed an apparently married man Richie hadn’t seen since they were thirteen, on the cheek. 

When they sit back down, they almost fall over each other, and Richie, face burning, tries to pretend he didn’t notice or didn’t care how very much up in Eddie’s space he was. At camp, Richie would get into a hammock to read comics and Eddie would get in there with him, legs everywhere with no concept of personal space. He’d turned red every time then, too, before he’d been fully aware of why.

Is he literally thirteen again, with this shit?

Bev, who’s radiant and just married and in love and soon to be departing on her honeymoon which is sure to be a fuckfest like the world has never seen, shoots him a look of concern before she walks to the next table, Ben’s arm going around her waist. “Are you okay?” she mouths.

“Yeah, I’m fine, Bev, don’t worry about me,” he mutters, shaking his head briefly. Great. He must really look like ten kinds of boiled ass. 

Most people, he’s sure, would have dragged their long-lost object of desire off to the restroom and at the very least made out with them, and meanwhile he, Richie fucking Tozier, is trying to avoid even touching Eddie, and probably looking like he’s about to throw up. And he can’t tell Bev why he’s upset, either, one of his closest confidants. 

He can’t fucking tell anybody. 

\-------

Eddie’s lying alone in his hotel room after the reception, thinking and trying not to touch anything. 

He of course pulled the comforter back first thing, because housekeeping even in the fancy joints basically never washed comforters and people would fuck on those and get their dirty shoes on them and all the dust and dirt on their outerwear. He’d considered putting a towel down on the fitted sheet but decided the odds were good that the sheets were cleaner than the towels. After that, he’d wiped down stuff in the bathroom with Clorox wipes. They had paper cups here, at least. He’d seen on “60 Minutes” that housekeeping would just rinse glasses with cleaning fluid instead of putting them in a dishwasher.

He tries not to think about what microbes and mold he’s probably breathing in right now from the air conditioner, which he turned on because it was stale when he first got in here and it smelled like mildew, and it was important to at least try and circulate the air and pull the moisture from it. At the same time, the thought of who knows what germs tumbling around the room and landing on all his shit makes him want to gag. The last thing he needs is a goddamn staph infection.

Eddie had moved out because he needed time alone to think, and now he’s alone thinking, and it sucks. There’s just the dry hum of the AC, the sounds of footsteps in the hall and above him. Of course he doesn’t have the TV on, because the remotes in hotel rooms are fucking coated in germs. He doesn’t even bring plastic bags to put over them like the tip guides tell you to, he just doesn’t touch them at all. He’d clean his earbuds with an alcohol wipe and listen to a podcast, but he doesn’t think he has the attention span for it right now. Trying not to touch anything and having nothing to listen to is a recipe for just lying here alone with his thoughts. 

Eddie’s not sure why he didn’t guess that Richie would be here. If Bev’s kept in touch with him, it would make sense that she’s been in touch with Richie. He wishes it _had_ occurred to him, so he’d have been more prepared, but in fairness, he hadn’t expected to react like he did when he realized Richie was sitting next to him. He thinks, he hopes, he hid it well. He hadn’t been expecting Richie, and he hadn’t been expecting Richie to look like he does now, and it’s… a lot to deal with. 

He remembers Richie as pale, gawky, long-limbed, in retrospect obviously a gangly kid on the verge of a pubertal growth spurt, but actually seeing him like that—tall, ridiculously broad at the shoulders, solid, and fuck it, kind of rugged with that stubbled lantern jaw—was something else. When he’d stood up to greet Bev, he’d had a really hard fucking time not staring at him. 

Funny, though, that he still had that slightly messy hair, the thick glasses. 

Eddie and his wife are still wearing their rings. But he asked for a separation, and moved out, because he’d reached a point where he could no longer deny the high likelihood that he was actually gay. One look at Richie, and he was sure. The old pull he’d felt toward Richie had hit him full strength like no time had passed.

And that would be great, if he were sure Richie was a) also gay or bi, b) available, and c) interested. He’d been there alone, yeah, and he hadn’t been wearing a ring—Eddie had looked—

But Eddie’s definitely getting ahead of himself, because Richie didn’t even seem all that comfortable being there with him. And that… okay, that hurts. 

One of his favorite things about that one single solitary summer his mother allowed him to go to camp—okay, his most favorite thing—was knowing he could count on Richie to be there every day, to give him an encouraging smile, to make him laugh. When he was back at home and his mother was… acting the way she did, he’d remember Richie laughing at one of his own very bad jokes, and tickling Eddie so much just by doing that that he’d start laughing and be unable to stop. That in turn would delight Richie, and he’d make more jokes and crack himself and Eddie up, and eventually somebody would tell them to cut it out and shut the fuck up already. 

Richie was given to sarcasm, sure, but this evening he’d just seemed upset or pissed off about something. He hadn’t even talked all that much, which was bizarre coming from someone who’d been nicknamed “Trashmouth” at camp. Maybe, maybe it had nothing to do with Eddie. Maybe he really wasn’t feeling well. Still, it made him feel kind of shitty. Richie hadn’t even asked him for his information so they could keep in touch. Eddie had already felt weird, going to this wedding alone without Myra, when they’d usually have gone to something like this together even though she hadn’t known his camp friends and would not have cared to meet them. 

He isn’t sure why he hasn’t taken his ring off yet. He’d thought about it, since no one here would have known the difference except Bev, but he still isn’t quite there yet. The ring, although he’s uncomfortably aware of it and it feels almost like a weight, does offer him a sense of security, of belonging, a role. It gives him a place. It’s been on his finger so long he isn’t sure how he’d feel without it. He wishes he could take it off, though. He wonders if Richie noticed it, and if so, what he thought.

Jesus, he’d looked good. Eddie’s dick pulses at the thought of those goddamn shoulders again, Richie’s big hands and his hairy arms. He sternly ignores his dick, because no way in hell is he jerking off in this room. There’s semen all over every surface in here as it is.

That doesn’t mean he won’t file those thoughts away for when he gets home, though. Not to be weird about it. Eddie’s not new to masturbating while thinking about men, but he doesn’t feel like shit about it anymore when he does and anyway if he’s probably not going to see Richie again he might as well remember the good stuff. There’s a lot of good stuff to remember about Richie. He swallows, feeling even more alone than before.

All right, he should go to sleep. He’s flying out tomorrow, after all. No sense in sticking around, plus that meant only one night in a hotel room. Even if he’s still getting used to his new apartment and the lingering smell of new paint with God only knows what chemicals in it, it’s at least his alone now, and the flooring is not skanky carpet, it’s hardwood. At least he can Swiffer WetJet that shit.

Maybe if he’d known Richie would be there, they could have arranged something, and met for lunch or whatever. But maybe it’s just as well, for now. Spending more time with his teenage crush, his first kiss, probably isn’t what he needs to do right now, anyway.

And yeah, after all, it isn’t like Richie had been thrilled to see him.

\-------

Richie has a very clear memory of what Eddie looked like at the reception, the sound of his voice and most of what he’d said to Richie, even though it was primarily just small talk. For the next week, he keeps thinking about him, and he kicks himself over the way he’d left after saying his cursory goodbyes, claiming not to feel well. 

Eddie had given him a quick hug goodbye and he’d just about died inside, Eddie’s smallish but solid body squeezing him briefly but tightly. He’d smelled so good. Richie had gone silent in the moment.

Shit, he’s so pathetic. 

Judging from Facebook, just under two weeks later it looks like Bev is back from her honeymoon. 

She messages him with _Thanks for coming :)_

_thanks for inviting me_

_You sure you’re okay?_

_jesus, i must have looked like real shit if youre still thinking about it two weeks after your wedding._

_I saw you got to talk to Eddie. You guys were such good friends, but you looked pretty upset, so I was confused if you were feeling okay, that’s all._

Something in him slumps. _i’ll tell you about it sometime over coffee._

They do see each other once a month or so, and the next time, Richie’s aware in the back of his mind as he enters the cafe that Bev will ask and Richie will tell her. It’ll be kind of a relief, to have finally told someone.

They don’t get to it right away; they exchange the usual pleasantries, talk about her honeymoon, all that shit. Then she says, “So….” and Richie manages not to cringe too much.

“Yeah.”

“So.”

“Yeah. Uh. I wasn’t expecting to see Eddie.” Richie taps the side of his paper cup. “He…. I….” How does he say this? _I’ve been thinking about him since I was thirteen? He was my first kiss? I’ve never gotten over him? I was too chickenshit to Google him? He’s fucking married or something?_

“And that upset you.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?” Bev’s voice is gentle. She puts her hand on his arm. “Rich, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you quite like this.”

He laughs shortly. “Reassuring.”

“Hon, it’s fine. You can tell me.”

“I know.” He sighs, and to his horror it’s a watery sigh, and he’s tearing up. But then he laughs, sad. “This is really stupid, Bev, it’s so stupid. I’m warning you.”

“It’s okay, you can tell me things you think are stupid.” 

Sighing again, Richie stares at his cup. “Bev.” Okay, he should look at her for this. “Eddie was my first kiss. I… imprinted on him, or something, and… I’ve been stuck on him ever since. And he’s… married, I guess.”

“Honey.”

“I know, it’s fucking sad, okay?. This was twenty-seven years ago, yeah, it’s fucking sad. I’m hung up on someone I knew when I was thirteen.”

Bev raises her brows at him and smiles. “Well, that’s not so wrong.”

“Touche, but this feels a little different, all right? We’ve been basically no-contact since that summer, the Summer of My First Kiss.” He puts capital letters in his voice at the beginning of each word.

Bev squints at him. “Eddie was only there one year, right? And then his mother wouldn't let him come back the next year?”

Richie nods. “Yeah, pretty much. That crazy bitch.” It had really sucked, hoping to see Eddie and then hearing through the grapevine that his weird mom didn’t let him come back.

She smiles, one of her enigmatic little smiles. Fucking mystical-ass Bev. “I don’t have permission to share what I just realized, but if you contact Eddie,” and the “if” was emphasized, as she takes out her phone, “ask him who his first kiss was.”

Richie squints at her. “What are you even saying?”

“Just contact him.” She’s writing a text message, and then Richie’s phone dings, and she’s sent him Eddie’s information. “Everything else he might have to tell you, that’s for you. I can’t be your messenger there. Except I will tell you he’s separated. I think I can say that.” She kisses his temple. “Is there anything else you wanted to talk about?”

Richie is still staring at Eddie’s info on his phone. “I haven’t really been thinking about much else, because, you know, I’m a fucking sadsack like that. Get back to your hot-ass new husband. At least somebody will be getting laid.”

Bev laughs softly. 

“Hey,” he asks, “how come you never told me you were still in contact with Eddie?”

She shrugs. “It never came up? If I’d known you were fixated on him, I’d have helped you out, you know that. I’m surprised you never told me, actually. You usually have no problem telling me anything that’s on your mind.”

Eddie has been in his thoughts constantly for years and it’s probably the one thing he’s never told Bev about. “Isn’t it ironic? Don’t you think?”

She rolls her eyes and gives him a little smirk, but he’s pretty sure it’s fond.

Now Richie’s got a new set of problems: when is he going to contact Eddie? What the hell is he going to say? And how the fuck is he going to say it?

Days later, Richie is still thinking it over, and he’s starting to get restless and wanting to just get it over with and be rejected. But should he be rejected in a phone call or in a text? Which is more lame?

He compromises and texts Eddie.

_hey, this is richie. can you call me?_

He slaps his forehead repeatedly as soon as he’s sent it. What the fuck was that?

\-------

Eddie’s finishing up dinner in his newish one-bedroom apartment when he hears his phone ding with a text message. He’s not at all expecting the message to be from Richie.

_Can you give me five minutes?_

_yeah._

Eddie quickly rinses his plates and puts everything in the dishwasher, trying not to panic. Why should he panic? It’s just Richie. ...Just Richie, the guy he still has a big crush on after all these fucking years. Okay, he needs to get a hold of himself—he’s not a teenager anymore, he’s made a lot of changes and he can handle whatever the hell Richie has for him this evening.

He calls him.

“Hey. Hey, Eddie.” Richie’s voice sounds brighter than it had at Bev and Ben’s wedding, but he sounds really nervous, too. Eddie wonders if something bad happened to someone, and now Richie is the only person left to tell him about whatever it was, which is definitely a bad sign.

“Richie? Is everything okay?” He tries to keep nervousness out of his own voice, but it’s a struggle. Jesus, is he going to need to dig up his inhaler?

“Shit,” he hears Richie mutter, and he panics for a moment until Richie clears his throat, and sounds more normal (at least, what Eddie presumes he must normally sound like) when he says, “Yeah, fine, sorry, I’m just… nervous.” Eddie can hear him swallow.

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Uh. Bev told me to contact you, and… it’s a little weird, I guess. Seeing you the other day. And… this.” That explains how he got Eddie’s number. Hell, Eddie hadn’t asked for Richie’s contact information either, but he might have if Richie hadn’t clammed the fuck up on him.

“A little weird, yeah, I guess, but I liked seeing you. You seemed kinda… upset with me, though.” Eddie rushes to add, “Or upset in general, I don’t know.”

“Jesus.” Richie sighs. “I need a better poker face or something. Poker, I hardly know her, plus I’m fucking gay.” 

Eddie nearly chokes. “You are?”

“Well shit, I didn’t mean to come out to you exactly that way, but yeah. Uh, speaking of possibly being gay, Bev told me to… okay, this is going to sound really stupid, and I don’t know why she said this, but she wanted me to ask you who your first kiss was. You can hang up and never speak to me again if you can’t believe I’m asking you this shit, that’s fine.” Richie’s laugh is hollow.

“Rich, it was you.” Did Richie forget that? Did he not realize? Did Richie forget that Eddie even kissed him? What a strange thing for Eddie to be upset about, a kiss he’d had at thirteen, but then, Eddie had learned that when you were a gay kid, things like that were… bigger deals, maybe, than they were for straight people. It had certainly been a big deal for him, anyway. No kiss had compared to that one, clumsy and amateurish as it was, but when Eddie needed to remind himself he could be brave he remembered that he’d kissed Richie. That had been his decision, and he’d done it, even if Richie apparently didn’t remember that. 

They’d walked off alone somewhere like they did a lot that summer, and they’d sat down on a log by the creek, a little too close maybe, and Richie had made some stupid joke that Eddie had since forgotten and, following a strong, sudden urge, Eddie had kissed him. Eddie’s lips were dry, but Richie’s were a little wet. He’d smelled like soap and… sunshine. 

Richie had sucked in a breath and turned red and blinked behind his thick glasses, and didn’t say a word about Eddie kissing him. He never did, like for him it didn’t even happen, or he’d just forgotten about it. Or he didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t seem to hate it, but Eddie didn’t know how he felt about it. Eddie didn’t regret doing it, though.

After a while they’d just gone back to where everyone else was. Eddie still remembers fighting the desire to take his hand as they walked back. He didn’t think Richie would like that, so he hadn’t tried.

“Me?” Richie says now. “It was me?” Eddie’s not sure what the tone in his voice is.

“Yeah. Of course it was my first. We were thirteen, dude, and I looked like I was ten. Why’d she tell you to ask me?” 

“I… told her you were mine, my first kiss, and she said….” Richie clears his throat again. “This is all so fucking dumb.”

“Nah, it’s not dumb. Is this about why you were upset?”

“Kind of? I… wasn’t expecting to see you, at the wedding, and… you were fucking wearing a ring, and…” Richie’s pause then is so lengthy Eddie isn’t sure if he needs to start panicking again. “I think about you a lot, Eds.” Richie’s voice sounds thick like he’s choking up. 

Eddie’s not sure what to focus on: Richie noticing his ring, his old nickname, or the fact that Richie still thinks about him, apparently a lot. He swallows. “You didn’t seem happy to see me.”

Richie laughs shortly. “Yeah, I didn’t have a wrench in my pocket either.”

“I’m separated.” There, that’s out there. 

“Yeah, Bev told me that much.”

“But I still wear the ring. I might take it off. Soon.”

“Okay.” They’re both quiet for a while.

“I asked for a separation from my wife,” Eddie says, finally, “and we’re going to get a divorce, because I realized I’m actually gay, Richie.” He closes his eyes.

Richie doesn’t say anything for a while, then, in a soft voice he wouldn’t have expected to hear from him: “Eds.”

“I knew it on some level ever since I knew you. But I didn’t want to fully admit it. I had my reasons for all that, but things are different now. And don’t you fucking laugh at me for this, but when I saw you at Bev’s wedding, I was sure I was gay.”

Richie laughs anyway, a watery chuckle. “So what, you’re saying I made you gay?” he apparently can’t resist teasing. “I have a superpower?”

Eddie flinches a little, against the old fear that he had been “made gay” by some contamination. But now, years of industrial-strength cognitive behavioral therapy later, he knows that’s not true. This is how he is, who he is, and he wants Richie. He’s always wanted Richie. “Shut up.”

“There’s the Eddie I know.” 

He grins. “Fuck you, asshole.”

“Oh, you should be so fucking lucky, Edward Kaspbrak,” Richie retorts immediately, like he didn’t even have to think about it.

Silence from both of them, like a shock. 

Eddie tells him, “That can be arranged.”

Richie laughs, sounding a little breathless in disbelief. “So, you coming to see me or am I coming to see you? I mean, we’re both going to be coming, I’m just asking, who’s got the most frequent flyer miles racked up? Could write it off as a business expense if we work in a blow _job_ or a hand _job_ —”

Eddie can’t believe he’s now considering getting on a plane again, and for _this guy_ , but now that he’s thinking about it there is in fact a conference he could register for, kind of last minute. “Good thing for you I actually can come up with a serious reason to fly back in two weeks, for business. You think you can wait that long for me?”

When he speaks again, Richie’s tone is soft. “I’ve been waiting almost thirty years, Eds. What’s two more weeks?”

\-------

Eddie is sleeping on Richie’s back, and Richie doesn’t want to move him—he’s pretty much in seventh fucking heaven like he’s been the past four months whenever Eddie makes a red-eye weekend visit, even through Eddie has a slight tendency to snore, which he strongly denies—but he really does need to piss. Enough to ignore his incipient morning wood and Eddie’s, even.

“Eddie,” he whispers. “Hey.” He shifts a little bit, and then again. Eddie huffs against his shoulder. “Eduardo. Sweetheart. Mi amor. I’m super fucking sorry to do this to you, man, but I need to get up, I need you to move.”

“Mmm. No,” Eddie answers sleepily.

Richie laughs. “No, I really do or I’m going to have to piss all over the bed and I don’t think you’ll be very happy about that. Watersports was not on the little printed-out list of acceptable kinks you gave me. You’ll probably kick my ass, and while I’d really enjoy that, it might tucker you out.” It’s pretty incredible that Eddie, who can rant at length about the lack of cleanliness in hotel rooms, doesn’t seem to mind Richie’s apartment or his bed, when he can only guess what’s taken place in it. But he seems just as happy to be here as Richie is to have him. Richie’s more proud of that than he can express. God, it’s even worth how much worse he suspects his act’s been getting now that he’s twitterpated. But right now he still does need to get out of bed. “It’ll only take a second, baby, come on. Please. Prostate health, I know how much you value my prostate.”

“Mmmph.” Eddie is a hard sleeper, like he’s determined to get it right or something, plus these visits disrupt his sleep patterns to the point where Richie almost feels guilty. Every so often they have to go through something like this, where Richie has to be the one to get Eddie awake, which is a fucking laugh. Richie starts to raise himself up, and with a surprised squawk Eddie slides off. “Fine, asshole. But only because I don’t want to go to the trouble of kicking your ass for peeing everywhere.” 

“Great. Thanks, Eddie Spaghetti.” Richie turns over and kisses him square in the middle of his angry little forehead. “You want to shower, anyway, right?” No one loves a long, piping-hot shower like Eddie. “What with your fetish for covering your wet body with soap, you cute little pervert.” He waggles his brows.

“Yeah, I could shower,” Eddie admits, ignoring the fetish comment, trying to look disgruntled and like he’s going to tell Richie to stop patronizing him. But he can’t hide the way his face lit up when Richie mentioned showering.

“Well, get all your… elaborate toiletries, your Kiehl’s and all that shit,” Richie says, getting out of bed and putting on his glasses. 

Flipping him off, Eddie, as usual, protests that he’s got a system, blah blah, you have to get the right stuff and use it at the right times.... It’s music to Richie’s ears. “Besides, I don’t see you complaining about my perfect complexion, asshole,” he calls to Richie in the bathroom, from where he sounds like he must be digging around in his multiple suitcases (and that reminds Richie, he’s got to tell Eddie he can just start leaving stuff here if he wants). “You could use some exfoliator, you know. Can’t use mine, but you should fucking get some.”

“Sure thing, babe, I’ll get right on it. Gonna be La Mer all up in this bitch twenty-four seven, three-sixty-five. I’ll just have to take out a loan to afford one bottle of unicorn jizz or whatever the fuck.” 

Finally, at last, the much-needed piss. Eddie, to put it mildly, is not the type to think couples should witness each other doing much of anything more in the bathroom than brushing their teeth—Richie hasn’t even tried yet to talk Eddie into the concept of them showering together—and that’s fine. He considered it a miracle that he’d been able to talk Eddie into fucking him without a condom, and that had involved actual paperwork. Showertime could wait. 

Everything’s fine. Because when Eddie walks in with the toiletry bag that he’s been bringing to Richie’s, braving semi-frequent plane travel for the time being, despite his ranting he looks happy like he’s being fucking lit from within, and where there was once Eddie’s wedding ring there is now a stripe of bare skin paler than the rest of his hand, and it’s been there for months.

“You know,” Richie tells him, taking up said hand in his own and ignoring Eddie’s squawk that he hadn’t even washed his hands after pissing (that was fucking ridiculous considering the various orifices in which Eddie had accepted both his fingers and his dick as recently as last night, though not at the same time), “if you need something to cover this ugly-ass non-tanned area on your hand, I think I might be able to hook you up.”

“In your fucking dreams, Tozier,” Eddie scoffs, turning pink and pulling his hand back. 

“Oh yeah, in my fucking dreams, all right.” Richie presses his hand to his chest over his heart and pretends to swoon. “My dream since I was thirteen years old was to marry your crazy little ass. Anal-retentiveness always gets me hard as a rock. When you get out your rubber gloves and a bottle of bleach, my dick could fucking pound nails—”

“Fuck you,” Eddie whispers fondly, and kisses him, sweet and brief. He immediately scrunches up his adorable face. “Brush your teeth, you’re disgusting.” 

“You’re the dope who decided to kiss me when we just woke up.”

“Asshole.” Eddie puts his toiletry bag down on the counter. “Look, seriously, I’m not ready to have… another ring yet.” Richie’s face must have betrayed him, because Eddie hastens to add, “But when I am, it’ll be yours, I promise you that.” 

“Promises, fucking promises.” Richie hopes he doesn’t sound breathless.

‘No, really, Rich. But you better propose to me properly. Pull some fucking bullshit and I’ll have to propose to _you_ and you’ll just have to deal with it.”

“Don’t threaten _me_ with a good time.” Richie’s a little dizzy. “You know I’m going to pull some fucking bullshit, so you might as well propose to me first,” he suggests through toothpaste foam.

“Yeah, right. Ugh, you’re getting spit everywhere. Wipe that up.” Eddie starts to lay out his little bottles and shit in Richie’s shower. “Hurry up and get out of here already, go make some coffee.”

Richie wipes his mouth and watches Eddie taking out all his crap. He clears his throat. “You know you can start leaving your shit here, right? You don’t have to bring it all back and forth every time.”

“Yeah, but I like knowing where it all is.”

“What? Dude, you _would_ know where it is. It’d be right fucking here.” Hard to argue with that, right?

“Okay. When my lease is closer to being up… I’ll consider it.”

Richie blinks. “Okay.” Now that the words have actually been spoken, kinda, he realizes the thought of Eddie moving in, of wearing his ring, of marrying him, doesn’t scare the shit out of him and that in itself kind of scares the shit out of him. But it’s fine. More than fine. “C’mere, you little shit,” he says, leaning in as Eddie pauses in his routine to kiss him properly, now that his teeth are freshly brushed. Somehow, Eddie never has morning breath, of course. He’s just really getting into it when—

“Richard. Go make coffee,” Eddie says against his lips, smiling.

“ _Fine_ , God,” Richie whispers back. With a sigh, he steps back. “I’ll leave you to your Silkwood shower. Can’t blame a guy for trying to get a little morning glory action.”

“Later!”

“If you do it later it doesn’t count as morning glory, _Edward_.”

“Oh my God. It already doesn’t count. You’re the one who had to fucking get out of bed!” Rolling his eyes, Eddie gets out of his briefs, ignoring Richie’s wolf-whistle, and pulls back the shower curtain. “Coffee!” he says like it’s a curse word, eyebrows raised.

“All right, all right.” 

To the sound of the shower running, a grin practically splitting his face, Richie goes to make coffee for the man he’s loved since they were thirteen. He knows Eddie will grouse like he does every time about something he did wrong in making it, but he’ll drink it anyway with a smile like he always does. And he’ll complain like he always does when Richie kisses him tasting like coffee, but he won’t stop him from doing it. 

And every time Eddie kisses him, he’ll feel the same way he did that summer day when they were thirteen. Except, obviously, Eddie kissing him gives him at least a semi now, because he’s gone through puberty.

So, things have actually turned out pretty fucking great.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry the bottom!Richie is only implied instead of explicit, but I have another WIP that does in fact have explicit bottom!Richie, and this one was not originally intended to be all that sexual and I guess I'm compartmentalizing...? But please subscribe to my fic if you'd like to read that one! And thank you to [Liz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizifer/pseuds/lizifer), Amy, and Paige for helping me out with this <3


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